One voice, one song before the heart…
by Whispurrs
Summary: Mok/Angel perhaps, this started as a secret santa to rinkusu001 on deviantart. 'In this dream, he had won, was it so very different from life' You would expect that the happy ending cuts all ties from the villain and the negativity they encompass; sadly, in a world without them to begin with, the laws of the universe don't consent to such conformities - quite literally.
1. Chapter 1

**One voice, one song; before the heart…**

The damp chill was getting through her bones; her slender form shivering in her thin red jacket she had for the birthday that entitled her to be there; standing in a mass of screams and cheers for the God and demon of music; the seductive, awe inspiring and generally ill-tempered Mok Swagger, musician extraordinaire.

She listened closely to him; hanging on to any word she could make out; noting only passion he put into his performance, with an arrogant smile, which , when he turned around to any empty chair turned into a glare that ensured someone's gravestone was to be written.

When they hailed him as a damned God it was his right to be worshipped; to be adored; and yet his critics were growing ever more prominent; as were the seats that were lonely.

Whilst he sang he mocked the very words he sang, nearly spitting them out of his mouth because of the toxic taste; romantic drivel his execs thought he'd get more attention with; a simple, infatuated song which may as well have consisted of ''oooh love'' and nothing more.

When he ruled his portion, at least of the Earth; god damn them they would be the very first to pay; and his mind was already inventing gleefully sadistic outcomes for them.

She did find his songs were a little less – unique, but still the screams continued; a mass of frenzied fans glorifying their idol; and she was all too happy to join in; wondering as ever just what went on Mok's mind.

He was a leader of fame, of course, but he knew how to dance with infamy as well, if not better; and many dubbed him the music industries curse after he told snippets about his adoration of incantations and the like; the press churning out with witty repertoires how he was killing originality in the business far better than any plague.

She was known for being _the_ Mok fan in her area; all others finding it a brilliant source of snark that she listened to him off all people, and was fascinated by him; on the select interviews he gave, his roles in obscure films that were thus allowed to ooze his nature, and were he public enough for a biography of any sort, he would capture her attention with his words as well.

Omar; despite being a fellow musician was, to say the very least less than impressed; they were the big band; the only band; the world's only band that played in empty little clubs in which only spiders and drunken mutants hung out; both as bad as the other to some.

Dizzy tried calmly insisting that they needed inspiration; people to make their music even better; but Omar wanted the anger unleashed now and raw; and with not one bit of help from anyone who he did not personally choose.

Angel cursed herself over what she thought of him; foul mouthed, loud and with all the emotionally intelligence of a warthog; a real catch, she rolled her eyes to herself, sure that whatever it was, it was not love on either of their behalf's.

When she found herself preforming clichés word for word, scribbling Omar's name halfway through whatever; she reminded herself everything took time; and that even Mok had not yet found a proper lover; so her first was bound not to be her last.

She always gave her all; even when at those few clubs bars and other shacks where not even spiders dared roam; even when Omar had decided it didn't matter and got drunk instead; after all, a dream might come true.

She might be friends with him – to even know him for a moment of his life would be a life fulfilled; even if her lack of merchandise didn't suggest as much.

Like Omar wanted, they'd get out of their obscurity and have all the fame they desired; and she all the crippling thoughts of obscurity far from her mind; he'd find a whole batch of other women, she'd just record the songs she needed too, and she'd be happy...

After all; she noted, Mok seemed, if not to overtly enjoy himself be comfortable; or rather, in his case ecstatic about his own skin.

After a piece that the musician [or voodoo black musician priest, in his own indulgent words] would gladly have sent to hell flailing and screaming; there came a song that seemed to reek of vengeance and death.

His eyes flickered with madness as he sang; embraced by his words of lust rising from the ashes to kill with such flare and passion.

The song was merely a philosophy of hellish lust – he, however was lust, and the flames in his eyes turned him into a murderer of nightmare and dream; who would kill only after a caress.

_Even heaven needs a little hell, a secret place in which the fury dwells; come on angel make your Satan's night, hellfire looks a little like delight._

The cold once again shook through her bones; he had, inadvertently of course, said her name; in a way which made the little theories about him seem anything and everything but lies; and in a way in which his passion burnt -_ a little like delight _indeed.

She bit her lip; knowing damn well those thoughts, amongst other things meant her idol was the worst news since the local shakester was reported to have mutants working there.

Omar was going to flip if he knew….

Hey, it wasn't as if she could ever_ see_ Mok; and besides, Omar had his own charm, otherwise she wouldn't whisper his name quietly in times of joy; or scribble it wherever she could without notice.

How many relationships around her were love?

No, they didn't need that, even if she wanted it off someone else, in time.

Still, damn was she fascinated; and, as it was a harmless enough dream in the unlikelihood it would come to fruition she would let herself be fascinated by his image; his veneer, if not his truth.

She could see the fire in his, embracing his arrogance and loathing and all the other shrapnel of emotions in his web of deceit – she wanted to get burnt; after all, how else could he ever be called a magic man?

She heard a buzzing from the small chip in her hand, annoyed that it was interrupting a Mok concert of all things, before attaching it too her ear.

''Hey; how's Ohmtown's favourite cat killer doing?'' Omar asked; the smug smile that was his trademark evident even when she only had his voice.

''Omar,' she sighed, ''Mok's an artist, not a murderer; besides; for me anyway, this is the best concert ever.''

…..

God she was stupid.

No, far worse than plain old stupid – she was corrupted, turned almost utterly stupid and, above all annoyed with the world.

She saw him torture, maim, and laugh at the pain that was his, and still, that old dream, tainted by his new form had for a moment resurfaced in a moment that was meant to be purely sacrificial.

Unfortunately, the key words in it were_ meant to_.

If that was not enough, which it was; she had to see his face damn near every day- plastered on TV shows; the merch which people now flocked to buy, greatest hits compilations and everything in between.

The face that was such a tragic sight for the calibre of fan she once was had done no evil; and was a genius, purely free from flaws, instead full of quirks that entertained the world in harmless ways.

No longer was he a failing rock star, he was now ageless; as he had been ''cruelly taken from the Gods; up there with the new pantheon of music'', to quote one magazine; he was someone who would never have tried to kill, and never would have ruined her.

Instead he was a victim of special effects; which had tragically killed five others with names and families and oh, the god who was Mok. [Option either of sad face or solemn silence]

Every gushing ass kissing word uttered about him made her want to vomit; even lists of his greatest songs seemed hostile to her; laughing as manically as he once had.

Still, the thing that annoyed her the most was the _love song_ being included; aptly named ''love is [crush crush]''.

Omar had been, she admitted, far nicer than before; or at least more tolerable; mellowed out after having saved her, and, as any fairy tale would suggest the day, ready for their happily ever after.

Problem was; they couldn't live a damn fairy tale; not because she wasn't perfect, and he could be irritating; but because she didn't want one; and she would kill whoever came up with happily ever after.

They were; as far as media was concerned, a couple; joining together for the finale of Mok's final concert; not going to his funeral as they wanted ''more subdued morning, having such a strong personal connection to Mok as they did.''

A strong personal connection that included being lied to, drugged, held captive, deceived again, tortured, drugged again, forced into singing, practically forced into having sex, and, oh yes, drugged again.

Best friends indeed.

Omar, of course threw all tact out of the window, and continuously rambled about how Mok was a physcopath and not a fucking rock god, leaving her to pick up the pieces and say he was traumatised by the event, and was booked into therapy.

This of course, resulted in load of yelling from both parties.

''You were always preaching about the truth and you just let them think Mok was some kind of saint, Angel; why the hell are you telling them that crap?''

Angel sighed and pouted, which she knew usually cooled him off, before saying, ''I'm not happy about it either Omar; but, he isn't a bad guy in their eyes and, well, let them have a hero for once…''

''Oh, so you _can_ stand the sight of his smug face plastered on every damn thing?''

It wasn't on everything; well, he had yet to cover the toiletries market…

''It will only last a month tops, Omar, and he was a great musician even if he was an evil man.''

''Jesus, even you're getting nostalgic; he tried to kill us, and not just us; the whole damn world; give me one reason why it's ok he's treated like a God.''

''It's not ok,'' she paused, ''but we just have to deal with it.''

She hated apathy, not least when it was coming from herself, and even worse, inevitable; and Omar was sure not to like it either; ice the only thing between them, and instead of creativity coming to surface when they met for song writing, the same chill passed over them both.

It didn't help that the Mok worshipping fad was the opposite of over; with controversial new dramas about his ''scandalous other life'' enflaming the fans to such an extent there were protests.

Once again, she and her other close personal friend declined the many invitations to protest amongst them; saying the experience was still too bad for her, the memory of his comeback going so utterly wrong causing her great pain.

Rumours spread that she was, as her friend Cinderella had put it, ''Mok's lady friend'' at the time; turning to Omar for comfort when she saw her love in such a hopeless situation; and people were writing her letters of how she could deal with the pain; and how she was not betraying her love for finding joy in another one's love.

The worst thing, perhaps of it all was, misinformed as they were, she could not hate a single one of them; their intentions at least pure; and only picking on old wounds inadvertently.

Having seen the obsession soar, sure even so that one day it would fall from public consciousness; she had time to reflect on the man who held not only her neck in his skeletal hands, but her life and – not quite love as well.

Far too much time, in her opinion.

His eyes, at times almost devoid of pupils were laced with mockery as they looked down on her; ah yes, even on album covers the direction was always down.

His mouth, holding a bile fascination for all who beheld it likewise sneered at her attempt at an outgoing, privileged life she thought she'd treasure; full of fame and money enough to drown her sorrows in whatever ways she wanted.

As varied ways as there surely were for numbing her mind, a lot of them in the club she thought she was being oh so clever in escaping to none of them held the appeal that they did for Omar on his worse days; she was sure somehow that concealed in every bottle was Mok's smile; the epitome of mockery; and even the lightest of cocktails seemed to possess this quality.

How she longed for the obscurity she once had; they were quite well known, but hardly stalked and the fans were great, all in all; but too see her idol of sorts – perhaps even, back in her ignorant age he held something more- tarnish her dreams with but a laugh and a smile.

He had, in his mind, offered her everything; and, as traitorous as she knew it was, there was no doubt, in her ignorance; if only she had been selfish for the one moment she was likely to have been, she would have been happier, if led a shorter life.

It was like one of the quotes she held with disdain in her youth, wondering what the point of it was; ''Try to do the right thing; ok honey; I'm not going to say you have to, cause nobody's learnt a thing from perfection - that's the whole reason none of us are perfect. The thing is, just because it's the right thing; it doesn't mean it's the easy thing; or that it's going to get you liked.''

She could see the alternate images, playing out in her head; projected visions from another Earth, so very sour too her, with just a hint of the spice she loved.

She would blabber on like an obsessed fan boy about how much she adored his music; before he would grow impatient of her and, whilst pretending to woo her lead her to the bedroom; in a way most assuredly euphemistic.

She would become infatuated with him and his alien energy, thirsting to know more of a man who was to most just pictures and songs, adoring how vibrant she felt on the stage next to him.

The end however, was far more uncertain; would he postpone the work of a life time made of madness – she doubted it highly; would she tell him to stop it, blind in her charade of adoration, only to be killed by his beast, body pale and rigid before the day could be saved?

She was almost certain to vomit at that thought; somehow, even with him the dead, or at any rate dying one; killed by his infatuation of none other than himself she still felt he had the upper hand; and that it was still a far too plausible outcome.

Hell; he did hold the upper hand; after all, despite starting what for a day or so she thought would have cemented it; the duet of what for once she thought was love; he was the one who had broken their relationship [she cringed at the thought of it being anything further], was Mok not now, in tragic death the new fascination of the very people he wished flimsy yet permanent revenge upon?

She could not say one word against him without having fire through the letter box; as Toad had found out after calling him what was the truth; insane.

If he really was dead and not eternally tortured; she was sure he'd find a way from the mouth of hell into ghost form, and was laughing at her even now.

After her musings, an interview appointment [Omar was still recovering, so she would have to talk with Dizzy instead] she settled down to bed, hoping that her dreams would be void of any plot or fear; just a beautiful, cosy numbness, with a warmth she had yet to feel from anything much.

Instead, her mind was restless; it's numerous gears and cogs unwilling to rest, and thus to admit defeat, still buzzing with memories best left untouched and booting out the ones it deemed not useful; of course, the peaceful and contented ones.

She was in the same dark alleyway she and Omar made up for the last time since the incident they all knew and loathed; wandering up and down; the picture of the dream; though it would most probably be like most others forgotten, far too lifelike; far from the surreal blur other dreams took as their art style.

A figure seemed wrapped in the shadows, before emerging out to greet her.

''Angel.'' He smiled; voice as rich as ever; the very voice that was so oft to break her dreams to shards and conjure them for her in turns.

Were it life, she would have put up a fight; not letting him to think he'd won the game because of petty arguments and a few tears shed.

Were it life; she would be adamant she would win again, and would drag Omar even from the bowels of hell just to see the smile wiped off his face and to once again turn his laughter into screams of defeat.

However, it was most certainly a dream, crystallized in the absurdities that slumber brings; wherein she had no aid from her memories, feelings or thoughts, but wandered blindly in, the avatar of a world yet unclouded with opinions of itself.

In this dream, he had won.

But was it so very different from life?

**Author's Notes**

**Hello non-existent reviewers; I wanted to do this piece after a Mok drawing frenzy, and when I regarded my new ''he can't try to kill them'' rule for pairings, which basically exists for some continuity and so it is not just Draco in leather pants I wondered how on Earth I could write believable Mok/Angel.**

**Simple; have her in his concert; so she was a fan but he wouldn't see or remember him.**

**I also wondered about how she would cope with life after Mok; as I always saw Omar as very able to turn into Mok; were it not for the duet – but at the same time, their relationship didn't really feel like****_ love_****.**

**I made that a main theme, added some angst and hey presto; a fanfic for your viewing delight or disdain.**

**If this is relatively popular, either with you or I, I will make this longer; as my Disney fic has gained no interest and it will help me with my now quite old [I do apologise] labyrinth/rock and rule crossover.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A series of unwanted, infuriating and rather hard to forget about events.**

**Ah my God, thank you so much for your responses, Rinkusu and alike; I just adore writing Mok and everything about him, he just oozes self indulgent evil and even without a tragedy to account for it he is one of the most memorable villains in film to those who have actually seen him. **

**I will never turn him into a wangsting, ooc character; I love him far too much [in a****_ mostly _****non fangirl way, ****_mostly_****…] but I feel I need to give him****_ some_**** motivation later on , just tell me if it's believable or not.**

''Oh, come one now, Mok, surely you cannot think of us as idiots, even in our worst.'' A disembodied voice mocked him, underlying laughter bubbling through his words.

The hardly simple truth was that, in whatever state of indescribable agony he was in, Mok was alive.

Angel, too was in this state.

Neither one seemed to know that.

Music no longer pulsated through the veins of the mortal; he no longer had a surging current that would give his life elegant, indulgent splendours, but left him susceptible to once simple voice that meant the world where he meant nothing.

''Slings and arrows of fate, hmm; ah Shakespeare was truly ahead of his time, not that you would know him, of course; he must seem more archaic than even earliest caveman, still, I must confess somehow I find it within myself to be fascinated by your culture, however silly that may be.''

Mok had learned not to try and reason with the voice in its, of all things _contented_ musings, as harmless as the babbling of a brook, but far more annoying than even the most unbearably childish of the damned Uncle Mikey specials; and most certainly not to interrupt the glacial silence he could now recognise as anger.

He was cold, battered and the ultimate chew toy for his demon, but he was alive and still not stupid, at least.

''No retaliation today; ah, that is a shame, you see, I wasn't planning on you giving up, with what you had done, but it seems none of that matters here; still, I'm sure your pet beast would be only too happy to give you a hospitable stay in his digestive tract.''

Mok sneered at the voice, in case it could not see such small gestures and pondered, for a while his current state; it was obvious he wasn't going to die after he lived through everything else, but it was obvious also that it was not hell, for there he could participate in orgies with fire women and muse about things with the devil – as he had years before concluded that Satan would be a marvellous drinking buddy, instead, he had a bodiless voice and no fun in his madness to speak of, it was most unfair.

…..

Angel leafed through the CD's, before a Mok one grinned at her.

She now thought that if she was to live her life peacefully as she could she would first have to make peace with his false reality.

Grudgingly, then, she flipped it over; almost smiling when she saw the tracks it included; _Iced fire_, _dearly dead_ and _beloved _to name only the best, and , the icing on the cake?

It had no mention of that dubious song she had heard at the concert a whole life ago.

Noticing this, and trying to stick with what she told herself would help; the bought a hologramic of the Rage CD, trying to engage in as little banter as possible between the workers and her after her stardom, thankfully overshadowed by his death.

Still, this plan did not work.

As she walked to buy it, she noticed a well-built man, with large, consuming oval eyes and a nose like Dizzy's; the epitome, like her friend of open conversation.

''It's a shame he had to go isn't it; still, all the greats do early.'' The man behind the counter spoke wistfully of him.

''Yeah.'' She answered back cautiously, although somewhat wistfully.

He eyed the item first, eyes glowing with some sort of joy at it, far too adoring of its presence for his mind to be reminded of who she was.

''Do you know how rare this is; it's amazing, it even has an interview – I'll tell ya one thing, you got lucky with this one. I should have seen it- I'm quite a fan - oh, but I'm sure he'd love it to go a pretty girl like you though.'' He smiled wider, chuckling to himself.

Taken by two men – in a way at least; she wanted to tell him, but she nevertheless blushed at his sweet compliment; miles away from the usual grunts of recognition that came from Omar.

When night had come and even the night shifter's hover cars could not be heard, she vowed that she would play the CD, however painful or irritating an experience it may be for her.

The cover featured him, in the pose of Adonis, near nude; attached with strings, a brutal marionette, no doubt his idea of social commentary; feet bleeding onto a garden of barbed wire weeds with flowers blossoming from his blood.

That was his rage, then.

She closed her eyes, preferring only to listen to it than see his smug face once more; favouring of the few she had thus far heard, iced fire; a sombre reflective little piece almost far enough removed from the man who tried to kill her to bring tears to her eyes through song.

And then, the nest track came; one about gushing pouring blood as he killed a cheating lover; and the calm was shattered by his screaming.

She was glad her apartment was soundproofed; otherwise she'd have had all hell breaking loose.

She then skipped to the interview, intrigued as per normality when bad circumstances can come from it; trying to salvage an idea of whether his insanity always was his defining feature.

''It's an absolute honour to be joined with you today, Mok; so, what do you say to people who are worried that your scathing, pessimistic view is turning some fans to physcopath's?'' The interviewer asked, full of awe at Mok's presence.

''If anyone was truly worried about that music wouldn't exist, now would it? There always as to be an element of anger in my songs; as songs are portraits of emotion; are they not? Besides, listening to feel good songs in a foul mood makes you want to kill the writer of the happy tune; so in one respect I may have saved the world from killers. When in foul days, you don't need self-piteous, wallowing music, but music that burns and sears and tears, like a savage version of the normally mundane you would.'' He replied, indulging the debate like a delicious confection, the adoration of his work oozing from each word.

Angel had to admit it was at very least a well calculated answer; and she wondered how he managed to attract so many frenzied adorers who would flock to any trend when having philosophies like that one.

It seemed then; that the devil could hold interesting conversation.

She felt herself drift off to sleep, snuggled into her inviting couch, his words wasted on her ears as she drifted off to an uneventful slumber.

After a while of comfortable sleep, the peace was disturbed with a scream of ''you sly, sly dry little bitch, shoulda drowned in a well or fell in a ditch,''Mok as always had excellent timing then, she groaned, and proceeded to throw a stuffed polar bear into the hologram, blurring it to the point it could break.

She smiled at the little toy, proud of what it had achieved; God, if only she'd thought to run into a toy shop and not a club, why, she'd have one hell of a load of ammo.

As they all did, however it stared at her blankly, not even a smile for its small victory.

''Fine, act like that.'' She jokingly sulked, staring back at it, then remembering the ''talk'' Omar wanted to have with her….

Oh, at least it would make life interesting.

Ah, but not the kind of interesting someone could lap up from a book, pages turning as if even cavemen had a book reading instinct; nor the kind of beginin interestingness one could find from a painting of an artist mind both numbed and enhanced by their pain.

In that instance, the keyword was their, of course the painting could unsettle you, but in the end the emotions that caused it to do so would not be revisited by you; a stranger to them.

God, she sighed; she was debating with herself, what other path was there to certify insanity?

Still, it was not like Omar was a conversationalist; no, he saved his knowledge of words [as extensive as it was] for his music, always shouting out some not so very well hidden anger to the world; that the world thought was just for the song.

''You know, you and Mok could have got on well together.'' She remembered joking, seeing an overwhelming similarity between them at times; even with the absence of those iconic lips.

''Shut up,'' Omar near whispered, ''_shut up_; I am NOT like that slime!''

Inwardly she began to reel at the comparison; Mok wouldn't have saved her; not anyone but himself, and he wouldn't treat her like Omar did – she still refused, clinging to some hope of a truly romantic reality, to say what they shared was love – and yet…

No, no and yet's, she scolded herself; Omar was a good, if rough around the edges guy, Mok was not, it was as simple as the distinction of our times between Justin Bieber and David Bowie.

''Sorry, my mistake; I never_ thought_ I'd compare you…''she trailed off, the air full of unease.

As always that night; they kissed and made up – well, more than kissed, to be exact, but that was the gist of it; a pitiful reconciliation neither of them believed.

It was because of him; that horrible, damnable rich as fucking hell Mok; the reason Omar was turned from good hearted, edgy guy to an overtly assertive bore almost overnight – no, it was because of her, she wasn't grateful enough; she could not be happy with what she had.

She could not go on like that.

Still, she was thinking about it, hologram still faltering after a blow that was in all reality quite slight, but she also thought of how she thought fame would go; an electric whirlwind of pretty colours; fast and free and soaring.

In reality she wasn't even there, due to his death, and what little she had experienced was clunky and slow and couldn't make up its mind, and the only colours that were as vibrant as she thought they would be were those the so called cocktails of the club produced.

It took a nice, thoroughly enticing warm coffee to gear her from the impulse to sleep, leaving her to pine for the ability to scrutinise his every word, the broken hologram indicating her violent tendencies with teddy's meant that was not going to happen any time soon.

Instead she tried to recall a snippet of an interview about him she had read voraciously in the time before; something about his Christmas album and the surrounding controversy.

_So, Mok; why do you think it's ok to reference the devil in a Christmas song; I mean Satan baby is hardly subtle. _The interviewer asked, with obvious disdain at the choice off lyrics he had picked.

_Of course it is not acceptable, what did you expect of me? Besides, it was a charity single and if any little brat sings it mistakenly at a Christmas concert I shall feel sorry to have missed it._

She was, on one occasion, if not as young as the interview would imply one of those mistaken brats; as her status as a Mok fan was well known [and heavily mocked by Omar] she was dared to sing it; tempted by the flash of money; which would easily cover the entrance fee for a talent show for the band.

As it were that day was – memorable, to say the least.

Still, she was getting bored of Mok invading her thoughts with uncanny precision, and even considered whine –singing like an irritating child to block him from her thought.

The alternatives, however, were not a whole deal better.

Of course it was perfectly plausible she_ could_ think about normal, mundane, pretty things that question and probe no one; flowers and chocolates and their like, however could does not mean that she was going to anytime soon; as minds have an uncanny ability to wander off into the paths which their owners would never want to travel or recall.

Omar was another big no; as their relationship was less than average, to put it as nicely as possible, and Stretch had far too frazzled a mind for anyone who knew him to contemplate about him for more than a minute or so; and although Dizzy was infinitely more dependable he had the tendency to agree with her too much for her liking.

The sound of silence from her thoughts as they point blank refused to find something normal to dwell on did not go on for too long though, as her holographic was less than co-operative.

''Hello lovably insignificant being – just the chess master of the universe here, or God, or Satan – anything you choose, I can assure you whatever my name shall be to you I've been called far worse on multiple occasions. Actually, quite an overwhelming percentage of the time by who I want to speak to you about – oh, and don't hit me with a teddy, I like my dignity, you know,'' the voice came out from the machine, perfectly aware of the bewildered horror in her face.

''As you know Mok's been less than virtuous and landed himself a front row seat in what most of us would call the seventh circle of hell; however, on my terms I'll give him one more chance at life – with your help.''

She growled at the voice; agitated that yet another thing was driving her one step further from credible sanity.

''I wouldn't help that scum if you payed me!'' She shouted; a mental image of her kicking the hell out of the holographic and besting both bad guys sadly did not seem true to anything other than fiction; even if when confined to her mind it was a crowning moment of awesome.

''My definition of help is used very loosely; after all, I did say it would all be on my_ own_ terms –of which I am not fully prepared to give the details.''

Something inside of her grinned at the prospect; knowing the terms would not exactly be humanitarian friendly; and that, with thus knowledge she could throw ten kinds of shit into a man that deserved it, she thought seemed more than a little enticing.

''So you mean no rules?'' She enquired.

''None other than my own, which you won't know.'' The voice chirped, uncharacteristically breezy for what seemed to be an evil disembodied entity.

Herr common sense however, kicked in; however chipper the voice was its ends and possibly means were not going to be pain free; and not only for Mok; besides, how would a whole populace react to Mok rising from the dead.

She knew the answer, shower him with praise for it undoubtedly; saying how much of a genius he could be to make it so convincing.

Of course others would hate the publicity stunt nature of it, but none of that attitude would be published, at least not within Mok's lifetime; it would make them look like ignorant hypocrites to call him a martyr in death and attack him in life, not that the press usually cared, however.

It was last that her morals kicked in, odd for someone who usually had a set moral compass; she would not let him go back and take revenge and kill people, whether her or people who still thought him a God.

Besides, Omar was right all along, and experience told her that was a dire thing.

Omar however, was proving more and more prophetic than anyone would have guessed, with his lacking people skills bettering his judgement of them, and he, however obscure and however taken had more notice than him; a few gaggles giggling at him a day; and he would be sarcastic and rude, of course, but not without enjoying it.

If only he could snark about her temptation with the dark side and give her some indicator of what to do when her head was ten times more scrambled than it would have been with all of Mok's black magic.

''Do we have a deal, then?'' the voice asked, keeping the general bright tone, though obviously getting annoyed with playing the waiting game.

''Will I - people be hurt if I don't?'' she asked cautiously.

''Either way it is almost undoubtable – but would you rather see life play out like this in the hopes that you may go unscathed? That, in of itself is a silly idea since you wouldn't be void of harm here either. So, what is it to be, thrilling, entertaining certain pain or one in which you wallow till you die?''

Reluctantly, she let out her hand, only air brushing past it, not enough to seal a deal she was certain she'd regret- until it was; the air swept past her hand with a biting cold, whispers came and wrapped themselves around the air with ghosts of emotion and future folly – whatever she had done, it was more than enough.

She was going to die, one way or another; from justice or lack of it, murder or suicide, and the whole damn world was going to die as well, just because she had bad little ideas and forgot what side she was supposed to be on, just because, for once the so called heroine was on par with the villain.

She wasn't fit to be a heroine in the first place, she reminded herself, she was not virtuous, hell yes she was gullible enough, but she had experience that would make little old snow blush like the colour of blood.

''Wait – since when did holding a hand out count as agreement?'' she protested, feebly searching for a simple redemption.

''I told you,'' the voice chuckled, ''my terms.''

''Oh really, well, I've got a few terms for you Mr!'' she shouted, inwardly facepalming when she realised he'd been called worse things anyway, before noting the lack of cheerfully sarcastic banter in return indicating he had gone.

Damn, she reeled, well, I've got myself in a load of crap this time – why couldn't I have been at Omar's like he wanted; and then he'd smash up whatever coffee machine started talking before it had finished a syllable.

No, you just had to brood didn't you; nad now the whole world is going to crumble to pieces and no one there can pick up the pieces again – she smirked with a blossoming realisation.

The voice said that he would be given a new chance at life, not how long that chance would be, if she sang him down the first time, she could do it again without even a flea for a casualty; she just needed to figure out where he'd be, go there, pretend to offer him aid and then bam sing him back where he belonged.

It should have been an unnecessary master plan, but it was a master plan nonetheless and one that seemed easy enough to execute; once she had found where he'd be.

His memorial in the power plant; he was killed here, why not born again there too, God it was – way_ too_ easy, still, it didn't mean she could take any chances, however suspicious it was.

….

''Ah, Mok; congratulations, a lovely young woman has agreed to free you on no uncertain terms,'' he paused, injecting oblivious hope, the kind that wilted with the smallest speck of rationality, 'of course, however, those most surely certain terms are mine.''

Hope deflated from the room, a mental note to curse whatever the damned thing was hastily added into Mok's cluttered mind.

''Well, if that's your reaction then I think I may as well withdraw the offer –''

This had quite the desired effect on him, pupils widening in panic as he protested angrily; after a while subduing to a more mournful tone reduced to half the enigma he thought himself to be, prepared to forage for any scrap of comfort or belief on his knees, less now than an animal.

How he loved observing this shell, the voice laughed.

''No, I- no, please, this chance and I will show you my revenge!'' He pleaded, trying to show he was broken but not worthless_,__** never**_ worthless.

The voice inwardly grimaced, all too familiar with the cliché; what alas should have been a foregone conclusion.

''Fine, I suppose your life just has to be played out again now that I've got your hopes up.''

Noone, however suggested the rebuilding of a life was easy, especially when that life entailed traveling on the path less trod; and the reason for lack of erosion by footwear was because of a pure, common sense your life lacked..

**Author's Notes**

**I adore writing this fandom, and would love it if you liked reading this, even if not, tell me just what's wrong and I will try my very best to fix it for your reading delight.**

**I hope you think this addition witty and intriguing and not a villain sue; I may need your help with him, but it's going to be a long ride.**

**I'm sorry if I keep making Omar seem horrid, but I'll show another side of him as soon as possible.**

**Right now I really would like to explore the under explained world of rock and rule, its culture, its high and low lights and its history, so that shall come later too, kind regards to all my readers ;] **


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